7
In every city we visit it's almost always the same. We share our stories, we gain their empathy, we stir some outrage. That's the way change is, gradual and slow. Working at erasing the years of propaganda will be difficult, but after the same stale mumbles of lies, a fresh and striking new voice catches attention, like the birth of fire in a world of darkness.
The news of our movement precedes us, and with each new city there are more and more people who attend our public conferences, not even to report or record, but just to watch and absorb. Their eyes scrutinize, their mouths pout.
Always the story of my nickname, presented by Christina, draws amazement. Four fears? The people whisper. Fear of moths? Is almost as commonly uttered.
And always, the grainy war pictures we show of the pre-genetic manipulation age bring chaos to the room. But there is the truth, and it's not like it's totally new material. The photos were leaked onto servers a few years ago by a group of GD rebels who took over the nets. We are just reminding them of their existence.
Day in, day out. Pack, unpack. In every city there have been escorts. There have been curious people, staring like children at a foreign oddity. The smooth rumble of the train floor has become a sensation so natural and familiar, like breathing.
In every city there are scrapes. Incredulous civilians, rabid dogs, a lost identification tag. But nothing large, nothing we can't handle. No uprisings or bloody mind control, and we are all in one piece. Or at least, the pieces we've been left with are whole.
Christina is still a social magnet, with people warming to her at once. In nearly every place we visit she goes to talk to the people, and I have no doubt that she has gathered secrets and stories. Usually Caleb and one of the guards accompanies her, and I wonder what he's there for, if it's the company and warmth that he may have been searching for. Or if he just wants to find out everything there is to know.
Matthew takes Cara to parks and to libraries and to large buildings that show artifacts from the past. Sometimes they invite me, but more often than not I try to politely decline. I will leave them to their world of discovery together, and I will stay in the comfort of my solitude. Witnessing love can bring so much pain.
But I'm never really completely alone, because there are George and Amar and the four guards, and we try to find time and places to have a bit of fun off work. A month of just standing at attention is dreary. Sometimes we play Dare, a subtle reminder of the boisterous and juvenile Dauntless fun. And more than once there have been complaints of a group of young men leaving bullet holes in empty lots.
There's also Johanna, my mentor and friend. Each day we've spent together brings us closer. I know some of my ideals and concepts are so far from the ones she lives by, but that is the beauty of our world. If everything was one-sided, especially in governance, it would be a world of mindlessness. She and I have come to understand each other, to work together through our differences. As a result, there is even more respect. We don't always agree, but at least, we trust.
The politicians, for some reason, aren't very hostile towards us. It makes me wonder if after four years they have accepted the change, or if there have been orders to be hospitable. Either way, I can't know for sure. The best course of action is to remain wary, but not so cautious that the good will we've come to foster dissipates.
One exception was an encounter with a woman. I can't remember what city she was from. They have become a blur of gray buildings and stranger's faces. She was flanked by bodyguards, and the way she walked called attention to her air of superiority, each clack of her shoes echoing in the quiet hallway. She met Johanna and I in a private room, where the sunlight streamed in through the windows and the furnishings could hardly be called sparse. We were served sweet food, little round pastel colored discs she called "macaroons" and a pot of tea. The words that flowed between us are still clear in my mind, like the feel of a thread with knots my fingers have memorized.
"So," she says, picking up her teacup. "You have come to my city, and you have caused havoc."
She says these words, so matter-of-factly, that the accusation fails to register at once.
"We have come to your city, and many others, to cause change for the better." Johanna's voice is steady and quiet.
"Well, your change for the better has been causing havoc. The nets are exploding with news, and it's all about your movement. In some of the cities you've visited, there have been rallies!" her voice has lost its calm steel.
"In my city they are planning one! Do you have any idea how a rally would cause a traffic disaster!?"
"Do you have any idea how a closed mind could cause the delay of progress?" the words are out of my mouth before I know it. I go on. "This issue is not an unfamiliar one. The existence of the Fringe decades ago, and of GD rebels, show that this humanitarian crisis has been going on for much longer than our movement. The government has been on GPs' side for so long. We are the voice not just of so-called GDs. We are the voice of change. We are the voice of human equality."
She purses her lips, the knot between her eyebrows growing more pronounced.
"I don't know if you've met many of the people you call GD," I say, as gently as I can. "But they have told me their stories, and I think you should listen to their voices too."
Johanna looks at me, her eyes ablaze with pride. I sit up straighter and meet the green eyes of the lady in front of us. Her brown hair is not nearly as neat and prim as it was moments ago. She glares back.
"I don't believe we know your name," says Johanna carefully. The lady snorts, then looks startled, catching herself. It is a mannerism she doesn't like displaying.
"I am Amanda Fernando. I have the pleasure of knowing you, because your names have been all over the news, mister Four."
I shrug. "We don't desire to remain anonymous anyway. A man cannot truly speak to people if he wears a mask."
Her eyes remind me of the shards of glass tattooed on Nita, sharp and gleaming. "You'd be surprised what a faceless speaker can do."
I shake my head. "Spread propaganda?"
For some reason, she looks down. There is a thick and heavy silence. Her air of superiority has gone, and is replaced by an aura of melancholy.
"It isn't propaganda to you if you believe in it enough," she finally says. She looks away, out the window, into the endless sky.
"I had a child once. She grew up lonely, despite doing well in school. One day, she was gone. She left a note saying that she had fallen in love with the kind of person I so deeply condemned. There was nothing to do but keep going. She'd never given me a chance to take it back, to reconsider. All that time, she'd been holding her feelings in. She never tried to counter me or to change what I thought, to speak to me about the things that mattered so much to her. I always wonder why."
"Perhaps," I find myself saying, "she was afraid of you."
She stares at the rug. "She was such a sweet child. Losing her was worse than the downfall of any empire. After she left, I worked even harder to rise to power."
"Did you do it so you could find her?" Johanna asks. Amanda nods.
"Her name was Alice. She was everything."
We watch the sun sink through the windows.
"Four!" the harsh scream makes me sit up, drenched in sweat, pawing at the dark. It was her voice, no doubt, her voice as clear as daylight, in my ear and my stomach and my toes. She was everywhere, and she was haunting my sleep again.
Sometimes it's like this. Other times it's worse, because it's bad enough to break my heart over and over each night, but not so horrific that I wake up. I just keep chasing and chasing, and sleep is like a prison I know I can break free of, but don't want to. She's there.
I know I can't go back to sleep, so I stand and walk the length of the train, stumbling when it hits bumps. I find my way to the very last carriage and hesitate with my hand on the knob. I open the door, the wind whipping my face with cold. But it wakes me up, the clear stinging slap of it, and I lean my elbows on the railings, watching the dark earth move under me. One slip, and if I fell, I would be thrown to pieces. My body would grease the tracks and eventually, I would enrich the dry earth around it.
The stars are brighter tonight, winking like a multitude of dauntless flames in the sky. I remember the book on ancient beliefs that Cara showed me. How the first inhabitants of the land believed that the stars were people, that after earth, they went to live up there. How blissful, to look up in the darkness and see the people you love. I crane my neck, looking for her star. My eyes pass over it at first, but then I see it. A small star, alone in a corner, burning with intensity. It winks at me, before I realize that it is only distorted by the small pools of water in my eyes.
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